Doesn't Matter
by nachalainne
Summary: A friendly, good-natured barman tries to talk an old DI through a tough time.


"Just keep 'em coming."

Rob nodded, and reluctantly reached for the Jameson. The last fifteen years he'd been a barman. He'd poured drink after drink for the worst days ever had. He'd seen the pain of men laid off, men served 'those' papers, and men shipping off to war. Haunted men, men who couldn't remember a damn thing, even men with nothing left - he'd met them all. But in those last fifteen years, he'd never seen a hollow, empty look quite like the one across from him that night.

That look - this guy - it trumped everything.

And as a man who thought he'd seen it all, he was tempted to ask. It was a natural kind of curiosity - you didn't find your proverbial best-in-show and just send them home. You put them on a victory lap and admired the way they moved. You marvelled.

He wanted to marvel - but every time that old guy took another sip, just ploughing through a bottle of whiskey like nothing mattered, Rob felt a sympathetic ache in his chest.

The man at the bar tossed back his fourth whiskey and pushed the glass back. He'd forfeited his keys after round three, and handed over his badge during round four. That was a surprise - but he'd said it wasn't important. His name, his rank, his job - it just didn't mean anything to him anymore.

Picking up the glass, Rob silently wondered what kind of sin could cost a cop not just his job - but his dignity? No, not a cop - a detective; was that somehow worse?

Whatever it was, it must have been brutal. The old man looked like he was on his way to a life sentence - in Hell. His face read as pure resignation - a mask that said: 'Drink up, mate. It's your last chance.'

Rob topped off his drink and handed it back. The detective reached out mechanically - there was no life in it - and lifted the cup to his lips. Half a bottle in, he wouldn't even feel the burn now. The flavours were lost on him - a crime, in Rob's book, but he suspected the old guy had no fucks left to give for good whiskey. 'Just keep 'em coming,' he'd said - it was all about the bottom of the bottle now.

"Might have to cut you off soon," Rob muttered, unsure if he meant for the detective to hear it. Intentions aside, he did, and he looked up - fixing Rob with those soft, brown eyes.

One fucking look, and Rob his stomach flip in the most humiliating way.

"Just keep 'em coming," the man repeated - more hoarse than before. It wasn't a plea, or a demand. It just was.

Rob winced, and nodded - feeling a sudden surge of self-loathing, that he was enabling this. Tonight he was going to go home and hug his wife - just hug her, and thank his fucking stars that he had someone to live for.

He still had his dignity - just maybe, with a kind word or two, he could give this old guy some of his back. He was the tell-me-your-troubles sort. In his industry, if you wanted the big tips, you had to be. So he asked, "What's your name?" - even though he'd seen it on his badge.

But the man shook his head.

"Don't have a name?" He felt like such an asshole, persisting like that - but he couldn't watch the old guy drink himself under like that - it was making him sick.

The detective shook his head again. "Doesn't matter," he answered.

That was obvious. Rob could tell - hell, any stranger walking past could tell, just by looking at him, that nothing mattered - not a bloody fucking thing.

He had to know. Maybe knowing would make the old guy's pain easier to deal with. "You get laid off or something?" It wasn't exactly uncommon these days. Losing a job shouldn't do that to any man, he knew, but work was living for some people. And when you're that invested - well, it was hard not to feel like the world around you was burning.

"Doesn't matter."

Rob winced. He couldn't flat-out ask, even if it was killing him.

"Must," he answered, encouragingly. Holding up the bottle, he put his finger across the label where the liquor stopped. "This is all you, Gramps."

The potentially ex-detective's eyes looked oddly wet all of a sudden. Raising the glass to his lips, he sipped again - and found himself trying to drown in something that wasn't even there. He dropped his hand, cup hitting the table with a hard smack. The sound didn't phase him, but Rob grimaced.

"Easy there. Don't go breaking my wares. That's Glencairn." But he scolded himself as he spoke. 'Rob, you wanker,' he thought. 'As if he fucking cares about the quality of the glass.'

The old man's eyes were fixed on the empty cup. It was completely pathetic the way he stared at it - such a puppy-eyed sorrow. It seemed like he was silently talking to the glass in his hand - asking why. Why was it empty? Why today? Why'd it have to go and do that to him? Just - why.

He looked up slowly. Not far enough to stare Rob in the face, but just high enough to see the bottle in his hands. Letting go of the cup, he curved his fingers, and beckoned for it.

But Rob shook his head. "Can't do that." He could fill the glass again and again, until the old man passed out, but giving up the bottle was against policy. And he hated to do it, but he reached out to pour again. The man shook his head, shoving the glass out of the way. Rob stopped before he could dump a shot of whiskey straight onto the bar, and pursed his lips. "Suit yourself," he said. "Closing out your tab?"

It took him a moment, but the old man lifted his head. He looked up, with weary, empty eyes and an expressionless mouth, and slowly held his hand out for the bottle.

Rob sighed, hesitated for a brief moment - and gave it to him.

He glanced down the length of the bar, but there was no point. Two couples a few chairs down were more interested in themselves than some old drunk, and the guy on the left was engrossed in the electronic gambling machine. He could've handed over the fucking cash register, and none of them would have noticed.

"Talk to me," he insisted, leaning back against a shelf. "Favourite football team?"

Another drunken head shake, and a deep pull from the bottle as the man answered, "Doesn't matter," yet again.

Rob's stomach clenched. It was frustrating, being faced with such relentless nothingness. He was a cheerful sort of chap, and the soulless 'no, no, no' was wearing him down. "Something matters," he retorted.

And still the old man drank. "Doesn't," he replied. If he guzzled any faster, he'd be at the bottom of the bottle before Rob ever had an answer.

Straightening up, he moved closer to the bar - closer to the detective, because he couldn't for the life of him stifle his own curiosity. "But why?" he asked insistently. "Why doesn't anything matter?"

A long silence passed between them, where the old man said nothing, and Rob watched him drink. It hurt - it was physically painful to see him get to the end, but he knew it was going to happen sooner or later. He just wished the man might've opened up first - if nothing else, saying whatever it was out loud might have made a difference in his life. It might have meant something.

But just as he was about to turn away, the man looked up. He looked up, and he fixed Rob with the most emotional, traumatising look he'd ever seen. In fifteen years, he'd known the best and worst of red-rimmed, watery eyes sitting at that bar, but this look - with one, single look, this guy broke his heart.

The old man took a slow, shaky breath.

"My son killed himself today."


End file.
